Liaisons of the Bathroom Variety
by fireworkfiasco
Summary: Ron and Hermione have liasons. In the bathroom. What more do I need to say? [a prequel to Liaisons of the Kitchen Variety]
1. Starting Seductions

**Liaisons of the Bathroom Variety**  
Rating: R  
Disclaimer: Yea, sure they're mine. But I'm not J.K. Rowling. So, maybe not.  
Blurb: Ron and Hermione. More dirty liaisons; this time in the bathroom. Prequel to _Liaisons of the Kitchen Variety_.  
Soundtrack suggestion: Anything that makes you feel that tingle. 

Chapter 1: Starting Seductions

* * *

Opposites attract. Laws of science validate it, claims of love concur. Those that have seen it in practice swear by it, those that don't snub it.

He was her opposite in every way. Where she believed in rules to guide her, he lived for chaos. Where she was quiet, subdued; he was loud, almost to a point of being obnoxious. Almost. He was one in house of many; she came from a house of few. It was almost insane just how different they were. And still…

He came into the kitchen, a swagger in his step. The swagger came and went - depending on how much he'd had to drink. It was shocking, really, to think of how much they had changed since school had ended. Since their lives had been uprooted by evil, and then replanted with hurried hands, eager to see life return to a semblance of normal.

He, for instance, had become so much more…mature, almost. His eyes held the slightest glint of wisdom, something put there after seeing friends fall, seeing lives destroyed. He'd become a man too soon, she thought sometimes, wondering at the loss of his grin, something she hadn't seen since before graduation, before all the death and the fighting.

But there was still the trickster in him. And the rogue. And the handsomeness put there without her noticing, sometime not that long ago. She'd picked up on it recently, as girls swarmed him – he was a Weasley, after all. And Weasleys were amazing wizards – the right hand to Harry Potter! – And such quirky people! Why, no magic in England could make you quite as unique as those Weasleys!

And her! She'd become something else entirely! School now bored her to no end – she remembered with a hit of sadness the boxed chaos she'd endured when it got dumped onto hers, Ron's, and Harry's laps while just trying to _survive_ being magical and different and one-of-a-kind back at Hogwarts.

Things in her normally safe world had been changed for upside down the moment she agreed to attend Hogwarts – that school for the 'special people,' as her mother put it, a tear of happiness trapped in the corner of one eye. She'd discovered what it was like to face death there, how to befriend, how to love, to hate, to learn without the textbook, and to _live_.

Ah, life had been so simple back when they were fighting the little things like trolls and three-headed dogs… Her mind jumped into rewind of its own accord, speeding backwards to The Battle – the day that Harry had become the most powerful wizard in all of history. He'd defeated Voldemort, hadn't he? And she – she had watched some of the greatest wizards and witches in her day fall to maniacs crazed with power and death.

And, somehow, she'd survived it. But now the demons were different. Emotions and games played with words, flirting; a thing she'd never mastered. She was expected to hold her own in a world that had once rejected her for believing the truth.

The sound of a glass shattering drew her attention back to the present and Ron, where he was standing, broken shards at his feet. "Oops. Slippery little bugger."

She rolled her eyes and looked back down at the forms in front of her. Name: Hermione Granger. Age: 24. Sex: Female. Marital Status: Single. _And not looking to change,_ she thought with an inward groan. Too many more blasted parchments before she could call it done.

And then she had to get ready for the Celebration tonight. It was the sixth-year anniversary of the defeat of the Dark Lord. Everyone who was anyone was going to be there – excepting Ginny. And Percy. And Hope. And so many others who had been lost to the good fight, others who deserved to be there, more than anyone else. They had sacrificed everything for what they believed in, and they had lost it all…

Ginny was in America, Canada, maybe. Somewhere far across an ocean, somewhere that she was alone and far from what was chasing her here. It was Harry, Hermione knew, Harry who caused the slip of a girl so much pain.

And Percy…none of the Weasley's much cared to know what had come of their brother. He had disgraced them by not choosing a side – and he had fallen to the wayside after boundaries had been drawn.

Hope, a petite French witch who seemed to be oblivious to the crush that Bill Weasley had on her, wasn't coming because this was also the sixth-year anniversary of her parents' death at the hands of desperate Death Eaters, unable to accept that they had lost; that good had prevailed, that their ways were over. She was going to France to visit their gravestones, to pay homage to the others fallen under the reign of the Dark Lord.

Dumbledore wasn't going to be there; he had survived The War, but couldn't defeat age, and had fallen to a crippling stroke that shocked the magical world – some had forgotten that even with magic, they were still human, still mortal.

And Mad-Eye Moody was going to miss it; he'd fallen to Death Eaters. But he had gone happy; for it had taken a gaggle of them to fell him, and even then, with the hexes he threw to them, not one survived the night. He had made them all proud.

Tonks couldn't be there; the twins were still breast-feeding and she couldn't bring herself to leave them, even for the one night. Charlie was going to stay with her; something about travel and then his excuse got lost in between the hungry calls of two pairs of young lungs. Ah, newlyweds.

It was going to be a helter-skelter mash of solemn faces swirled amongst those who would be rejoicing. And she would have to be there – she was _the_ Hermione Granger, after all.

Boo, she'd rather curl up in bed and sleep. Too much had been draining at her lately, not to mention this strange stirring she felt around a certain redhead.

"When's Vickie coming to pick you up?" Ron asked; the shattered glass already banished to the trash. A mocking grin was plastered across his face – and she could already detect the slightest hint of alcohol. Why he drank so often and so much was beyond her; he hadn't been like that after school... The last time she could remember a sober conversation with the Weasley who had won her heart was months ago, long before everything changed.

"He's not." For a second, she detected a light prevail amongst the darkness in his eyes, but it was snuffed out when she continued. "He's meeting me there."

It was true; she was still 'seeing' Vicktor, although not in the dating sense. For some hare-brained reason, she hadn't shared the news of Vicktor's successful engagement – or in fact, that they were just friends – with Ron. Or his family. Or her family. To the majority of the wizarding world; exempting her, Harry, and a small family in Northern Bulgaria, Hermione and Vicktor were on their way to becoming a happily married couple. Ron still assumed, as most men are aught to do, that she was head over heels for the Quidditch star.

She wasn't.

Maybe she secretly enjoyed causing Ron to mutter under his breath as he sipped his coffee, an emotion similar to _jealousy_ twisting in his gaze – and she also caught the familiar scent of fire whisky… Was that a flask? Did he just…no; he wouldn't. He wouldn't spike his coffee – not in the middle of his mother's kitchen. Not so early…

But a glance at the numbers swirling around above the table revealed that it was in fact much later than Hermione originally thought, and she panicked, glaring down at the forms still waiting to be filled out.

She glanced up as Ron shifted, and found herself looking into a muddy stare, a haze of alcohol glazed over it. "What'cha working on?"

"Forms so I can Apparate without a check card." Magical laws were just beginning to loosen. For a while, they had been nearly unbearable as the country struggled to find its place with evil underfoot. Why Harry, just nearly a week ago, had been able to take his first broomstick ride cross-country – with a Disillusionment Charm in full effect, of course. Before that, it was one law after another. No wands in public places; no owling in daylight; no flooing without a pass-card. Insanity lined the Ministry – but a new selection of candidates for the positions were just becoming known and offered a release from the ever-binding laws.

"Check cards. I swear, if Finnegan held office; the world would run so much sooner. Bloody politicians." His ranting ran to murmuring, his alcohol-ridden breath fluttering her papers. His head migrated to his hands, then to the tabletop, eyes distant.

They sat like that in silence, as Hermione resolutely ignored him, focusing instead on her paperwork. His presence though, inspired her to work all the harder. Maybe it was the effect his closeness was having on her – butterflies? Never. Maybe giant, steroid enhanced robins, but never butterflies. Or maybe it was his knee, the one that was bouncing up and down. The one that that kept glancing her own, sending jolts of electricity through her system. Or maybe it was simply the urge to see him at the banquet, in his newest set of dress robes – a gorgeous display, she was told, of deep sapphire blue.

Or maybe, she convinced herself, she merely wanted to get away from Ron and his obvious drunken state. Yeah, maybe.

And if she repeated it enough, maybe she'd grow another pair of arms, right out of her forehead. Yeah, maybe.

Whatever the truth may be – and Hermione had a nagging suspicion that it wasn't the latter reason – she found herself signing her name with a flourish to the last form, her quill dropping from fingers that were still ink-stained – just like they had been back in the day – and stretching towards the ceiling.

Ron's eyes fluttered open just as Romeo – the owl purchased with her slightly expanded accounts – fluttered out the window. Ron pushed himself into a position that resembled sitting – if you cocked your head to the side and squinted.

"All finished, then? Ready for a randy party?" He gave a confused wink – it was as though his face didn't quite understand how to wink anymore – and pushed to his feet, staggering to the door.

It would have been good to know that Ron at least remembered the banquet. But it wasn't to begin for another four hours! Honestly; men. Even if they were handsome, and caring, and kind, and brave, and…drunk as a skunk. More than likely, he'd end up on the floor in his bedroom, dozing until Molly Weasley swept into his room and charmed him a pot of ice water right over his snoring head.

It'd serve him right for sitting downstairs and causing Hermione so much grief with all the knee-touching and the distraction and…

Sure, maybe, she enjoyed the touching. But only a little.

Too bad, she wanted him to touch her more. A lot more, at that. If Molly were to know her train of her thoughts, Hermione'd probably find herself in a pot of ice water as well. All the good it would do.

She didn't even know why she fancied him so much. He drank too much, had a temper that could melt steel, and was a stubborn ass…but she also remembered him before all the publicity, before all the death… Memories of them, sitting together, waiting Harry to come to them with his latest problem. They had been his net, and together had woven a history that stretched between them and linked them as nothing else could.

No matter what she had been going through, he had been there for her when others wouldn't or couldn't. And that was more important to her than anything else…

Her eyes locked on the window, watching the final display of glowing gold sunlight puddle in the hills and crags of The Burrow. It seemed especially glorious today – as though it knew the coming night held something special, important. There was a story – almost as widely publicized as The Battle – that it would never rain nor be overcast on the anniversary of the Dark Lord's defeat, because even the sun was rejoicing at the good fortune.

With a groan, she checked the numbers above the table. If she wanted to appear even semi-acceptable, she'd have to get upstairs. Right then. Two bottles of Sleekeazy's Hair Potion were waiting for her; her dress robes still needed to be ironed (although, in her opinion, there wasn't that much there to iron. Dress robes were becoming shorter in comparison to the lengthening lists of new magical laws.)

Or maybe in half an hour, she thought, gazing back out the window, watching as the fireflies came out to play in the deepening dusk.

She realized the foolishness of gleaning that extra half-an-hour – which had turned into an hour – as she gave up on the Sleekeazy's Hair Potion and swept the half-shiny, half-bushy mass of hair back into a high bun. Unfortunately, it did not stay well and long strands of somewhat-tamed hair would escape and flee to her shoulders, no matter the hex or curse she used on them.

Eventually she turned her mirror around so she would not have to stare at the convict strands and dressed quickly, using a Wrinkle-Wreleasing Charm to smooth the ruby folds of her dress rag – whoops, dress _robes_ – into a creamy mess of satin tinted the perfect shade of burgundy.

It took all of her will power not to scream as she surveyed her legs as she slid on her nylons. Not only deathly pale – winter would do that to a girl, even a witch at that – they were criss-crossed by pale purple and blue and reddish pink scars. That narrow one there, along her thigh, was from that time she was stabbed by a Death Eater's wand. And that one that looked like a star – that one was from being hit with a firework on accident, during the festivities of the vanquishing of the Dark Lord. Clumsy to some, she just hadn't adjusted (even though it had been nearly ten years) to her new, womanly frame. It seemed like just yesterday that she realized that her curves weren't from bumps or goose eggs any longer – instead they were, real live, actual _female_ curves.

It was as if her body betrayed her or something, and had turned into a woman overnight. Without asking first.

Surveying her legs now encased in nylon mesh – a darker shade than necessary, maybe, but with the whiteness underneath, it produced a nice, warm, tawny glow almost – she could barely make out the scars.

She smoothed the dress over her hips – wider than she'd like – and tried to generate a picture of herself in her mind. The mirror was still sulking in the corner, offering up small whimpers at the inhumanity of being banished to face a wall. And she gave up, summoning the mirror, and took a full look at herself in the slightly hazy surface – it was an _old_ mirror, after all.

"Well now!" The mirror sputtered, seemingly surprised. Hermione couldn't say that she didn't agree. Somehow, even with all the skin showing, the dress robes looked classy. And her hair had seemed to settle into the homemade hair style, for the pieces that had made like Houdini were almost flattering to her narrow jaw. And with the hair out of her eyes, she could see said eyes for once. And they seemed to pop. Which kind of scared her, actually.

"Aren't you a sight? Going to win some admirers tonight. And Ron's eyes will just _fall_ out of his head." The mirror gave a contented purr, something Hermione hated to admit she had never heard before. Usually jeers or comments for improvement came flying at her with all the force of a Bludger. But these kind words really did…they made her feel ten feet tall. Maybe she'd see just how far Ron's jaw could drop – wouldn't that be a sight!

"Thanks!" She grabbed her cloak and clutch, being sure her wand was tucked inside, and she flew out the door, down flights of stairs, and into a waiting floo-fire, set up by Molly in a kind of scary, motherly foresight that she so often put to use.

She stepped out at the familiar grate that signified St. Theresa's Hall, and felt immediately shunned. Miles upon miles of bared leg, arm, cleavage, and back stared at her as she emerged. Suddenly her too-revealing dress robes felt like a nun's habit. Where someone flashed a thigh, she showed her knees. Cleavage on another well-endowed girl was covered on Hermione. A thin, pale back on a giggling witch was covered by a layer of ruby satin on Miss Granger. The only thing she showed more of was brains, she thought, reveling in the warmth her cloak – even though it was a _dress_ cloak – gave her. Floo travel wasn't the warmest way to travel, given the number of grates and the constant flutter of people through them.

But then a house elf stepped forward and accepted her cloak, and she watched as he took it and added it to the staggering pile of cloaks and shawls and wraps half-hidden by a large screen.

Ah, so her 'smarts' weren't that impressive either. Accepting a glass of what looked like Champagne – dear Lord help her if it was anything stronger – she swirled into the room, greeting acquaintances, snubbing enemies, congratulating those who had married, given birth, et cetera, et cetera. She got a sense of satisfaction watching Cho Chang flit about the room, once again trying to seduce Harry Potter and failing miserably. She did happen, however, to catch the eye of one of the many house elves watching for those who had over indulged in the alcohol.

Somehow, through the throngs of colorful women, and sometimes even more colorful men, she made it to Harry's side. He was standing in a large group of Aurors – many of which were retired – and chatting with a bored expression on his face. Unfortunately, Hermione appeared to be the most female thing they had seen all night, and the majority shot her convulsing winks that made her stomach turn.

"Hermione!" Harry said, his voice a pitch too high. He quickly dismissed himself from the group and half-pushed, half-dragged her away from that corner of the room. She couldn't help herself any longer, and she burst into laughter as Harry straightened the somber black dress robes he was wearing.

"What?" He asked, irritability coating his words

"Sorry. Your face – you look like you had to kiss a Malfoy for a moment there – and I couldn't stop…" Harry's face cracked then and he too began to laugh.

Ron took that moment to saunter up and Hermione sobered immediately, saliva taking the place of laughter on her lips. But good God did he look good – that shade just… She wanted to jump him right then and take those robes right off. Maybe have a few people vacate the room while they're at it, and all would be lustfully good.

She offered a nervous wave – Why did she always feel so nervous around Ronald Weasley? Ever since he had punched Crabbe out for calling her a Mudblood tramp, she couldn't look at him without suddenly wanted to…to glomp him and good. And when she wasn't nervous around him, she was usually wanted to shove something down his pretty boy throat and watch him choke. But that was only when she wasn't nervous.

"Hey Harry, 'Mione. How's the party? I haven't been able to find any witch here who _hasn't_ felt the love of either of the Weasley twins. I'm giving up. I believe they may have contaminated the world for me." He gave a halfhearted smile, eyes not revealing anything to the curious duet questioning him with probing gazes.

Speaking of angry, Hermione had the perfect comeback all ready to fly loose – It was better than _him_ contaminating the world, wasn't it? – when a uninvited pair of hands settled on her shoulders and spun her around.

Ah, yes, her date, the one and only Vicktor Krum was present and accounted for.

She gave him a hug – one that was completely and utterly platonic – and a kiss on the cheek before turning around to face Harry and Ron – one of which had somehow managed to find a glass of something so chock full of alcohol she could smell it from where she stood. And it wasn't Harry.

"Vicktor, you remember Harry. And this is Ron." The look on Ron's face revealed that he still thought she and Vicktor where an item. Years of her hugging the Bulgarian platonically, never even having kissed each other, and Ron still thought she was dying to jump into bed with him. Vicktor was just shy; he sought familiarity - which happened to be Hermione, until he returned to Bulgaria and his fiancée!

"Hello," he said, hand outstretched. His accent had definitely died from lack of exposure to Bulgarian, but his mannerisms still weren't English at all. "Pleasure to be here tonight."

Harry took that moment to start a conversation on Quiddtich and the restrictions put on it since the Dark Lord's fall. Ron sulked. And Hermione shot him a look that would have withered a dead daisy.

He barely registered it, if he even noticed, and continued to stare at a tapestry holding the crest of the Ministry of Magic that was floating above all their heads. Even as Hermione attempted to glean a response from him, Harry seemed to give up on the not-so-talkative Krum and allowed Vicktor to sweep her away.

"Her-my-own-nee," he started – he had gotten better at her name, she'd give him that – "I will be leaving soon for Bulgaria." The words always came so slow from him, like spilled molasses, as he fought to pronounce each word correctly. "And you will be alone here. What will you do?"

She glanced over his shoulder at Harry and Ron – who had been joined by a very pretty blonde witch that looked a little too much like Fleur Delacour. Harry was paying total attention to her, while Ron still seemed to be amazed at the floating banner.

"I'll have Harry and Ron to look after me of course, and the Weasley brood."

"The Weasel-lee boys care very much for you, Her-my-own-nee. As does Hair-ree. But there is one who cares even more – " Hermione shot him her withering gaze and he shut up and fast.

"No. We'll not go into this nonsense about Ron again." It was true; Vicktor had always said that Ron had a thing for his Her-my-own-nee. She was trying not to become paranoid. Ron obviously felt stronger feelings toward his next glass of booze – not her. But then sometimes, when their eyes happened to meet, she saw something, felt something… Bah, who was going to believe smarty-pants Hermione could see love in another's eyes? All she saw was the title of the next book on the shelf behind someone's head.

"Well, I am leaving to pack. To Apparate, you must purchase a time slot from Ministry and my time is tom-or-row morning. Good-bye, Her-my-own-nee. I will write to you." And then he turned and left in the swish of a cloak, the crowd seeming to part before him, their eyes searching first his huddled form and then the woman's who had sent him away.

Hermione turned to rejoin Harry and Ron, but found only Ron, eyes still affixed on the floating crest. He seemed to sway where he stood, and Hermione hurried to his side, allowing him to lean against her as he fumbled his glass, watching it as it shattered on the floor. A half dozen house elves hurried forward to clean up the mess, and Hermione led Ron through the milling crowd to the bathrooms, hoping that Ron wouldn't be the next thing banished from the hall by the house elves magic.

In front of the witch's room was a line stretching along one wall, while the wizard's room appeared unoccupied. Ducking her head, she led Ron into the men's room; thanking God above that Ron was a quiet drunk and not a loud one. She settled him against the sink, trying to decide what to do with him until he could stand again. A flick of her wand and the door was locked behind her, keeping any nosy-busybodies out.

"Whad-what do you…do you see in that guy?" Hermione froze as Ron's voice filled the empty bathroom. He staggered towards her, and she found herself trapped up between two urinals. Escaping wasn't going to be an option, simply because in either direction lay a dark hole that reeked, and there was no way in Muggle Hell was she going to ruin her pumps – they had cost more than her owl had!

"See in who?" She tried to keep her voice level, but it was hard – he was leaning heavily on the wall above her head, his breath passing her ear in short gasps. His other hand – the one that wasn't bracing him just above her shoulder – found her chin and lifted it. Hesitantly, as though afraid – although who in their right mind would be afraid of Ron? Even if he was drunk? – she met his eyes.

Lurking behind the fog of spirits, she found the source of the question – jealously, unguarded in his intoxicated state. "You know him. No – you know…who. You know who." He stuttered over his words and she felt a flittering desire to laugh. But that was quenched the moment his thumb traced its way across her cheek, following it up and up until his long fingers were tracing her nose, her eyebrows, her forehead.

She never thought anyone examining her face could be erotic, but something about the intent in his muddled eyes definitely told her that this touching was good touching.

"Vicktor?" The word escaped on a breath, and she cursed it immediately. His hand left the gentle contours of her jaw and fell to his side.

"Yes. Old Vickie. What'd'ya see in him?" His eyes were trying to portray casual interest, but Hermione knew him oh-to-well. Fire raged in his eyes – anger and jealousy and hatred. But as her hand came up to trace the hardened set of his mouth – such a straight line! What ever happened to that crooked grin? – she saw another fire ignite and burn all the others out. Desire – hot and heavy and stirring – as her hand traced the lines, the valleys, the hills of his face.

"He's engaged." Damn. Her only trump card and she'd let it slip just because Ron had taken the initiative to touch her nose. Her nose, for Merlin's sake!

"Engaged?" His eyes took a new light – one that seemed sharper, less confused and muddled. "Not to you? And you don't…you don't care? What ever happened – I thought you loved your Vickie oh-so-dearly." His words weren't mocking, instead they were low – and suddenly Hermione just wanted him to shut the hell up and either kiss her or move on with his life.

Waiting for the guy of your dreams when he's as thick as the Berlin Wall gets old really fast.

"Yes, to a pretty thing from Bulgaria. He came tonight to say good-bye; now he's going to go get married, you sod."

Ron looked taken aback. "To…to… But you said…you said you…and him…and…" He surged backwards, away from her, leaving that familiar sensation of being forgotten by the youngest Weasley brother. He paced, albeit unsteadily, before turning on her, pinning an escaping Hermione, this time, to a sink, hands on either side of her waist. Her hands flew to his chest, prepared to shove him to kingdom come, but stopped short when she saw the look on his face.

The poor drunk was sorely confused; and worse – looked about ready to spill his guts – not literally, thank the Lord – and share whatever in the hell was bottled up inside.

"You're not seeing him."

Why were her hands snaking themselves around his neck? And why was she lifting herself to meet his lips? And oh – where were his hands? And just before they would've kissed – finally, for heaven's sake – she murmured a soft, "No," and his lips settled over hers.

And she forgot to breathe. When he pulled away, Hermione only saw one thing in his brown eyes and that was an extreme desire to spill something else in that bathroom. He picked her up, and without a word, settled her onto the sink, before his lips came crashing down on hers again.

And again. And once more before staying to her throat. And all thoughts save making love to Ronald Weasley flew out of her head once his hands found the catch on her dress robes.

The bathroom mirrors were officially fogged over. And Hermione was going to have an interesting bruise from the faucet on her back. And Ron was startlingly sober, something discovered after the second or third go at it, black coffee be damned.

Even as Ron checked his watch – somebody had come knocking not too long ago – Hermione was busily throwing the shredded remains of her pantyhose into her clutch and trying to brush the snarls from her hair – which had all taken the plunge from her bun and was hanging in her face again.

Ron turned to her, a glint in his eyes that looked slightly predatory, and held out a hand. "Want to skip the banquet and sneak home?" His dress robes looked like they were on upside down, and they probably were, all things considered. Had they even bothered to take them off? Hermione couldn't quite remember. There had been too much…_go_ and too little puttering.

She was hoping there would be more puttering next time.

Secretly hoping that _home_ would be considered his empty bedroom, she took his hand and closed her eyes. And opened them to find herself in the hallway running between Ron's bedroom and the bathroom. Turning to Ron, she felt a sneaking suspicion that she'd have a few more bruises in the morning – and all of them would be good bruises. _Very _good bruises.

"I thought you'd like to take your pick." He nodded to both rooms, but his hands were already on her waist, pulling him to her so that he could lay another mind-shattering kiss on her before stepping away. Damn him. She was already willing to just jump him right there in the hallway and now he was complicating things with decisions?

Damn lust. Damn love. Damn Ron.

She tried to think – but her mind was still lodged firmly back on that bathroom floor. Which reminded her – ew. What was on that bathroom floor? Anything she wanted to know about?

No.

And so, "Come on," and she tugged him into the bathroom and slammed the door behind him. He, somehow, had removed the majority of her clothes and his own before she'd even finished locking the door.

Thank God for locking doors. Thank God, she knew charms that would not allow said locked door to open, even with a key. Thank God for…

Showers!

She hadn't thought of that – but now she was as Ron tugged her into a steamy shower and into his waiting embrace. There was kissing and there was touching, but nothing prepared her for what happened in that tiny space.

It happened shortly after Ron had carefully pushed the hair out her eyes and pressed a kiss to her forehead. She was already melting under his hands; just a look and she'd have him up against the tile before he could say anything.

And then he said _something_, and her heart seemed to stop. "I love you."

"What?" She stepped away from his caresses, listening, praying that she had heard right.

"I…I…" But he seemed to have lost his nerve and his eyes dropped just as quickly as his hands.

But she had faith in her hearing, and she was back against him before he could blink. And that is what led to them racing from the bathroom and into the bedroom. It is quite possible that the fact that the only available floor space was a determining fact in them fleeing the cramped (and foggy) space, but that's beside the point.

Eventually, they gave into the fact that their bodies, no matter how young, deserved a break, and they settled themselves at opposite ends of the bed to stare at each other and determine what in the hell had happened.

Hermione was leaning against the headboard, her legs stretched out, toes buried in a blanket by Ron. He was leaning, just as relaxed – sated was more like it – against the footboard, watching Hermione as she watched him, hands tracing the lines of her legs.

She was considering sharing with him the revelation, she'd had so many years ago, after watching so much death – the fact that she didn't want to die without telling Ron just how much she loved him. It was on the tip of her tongue, ready to be spread before the fiery redhead, when he interrupted her and scattered her thoughts like Muggle marbles.

"What's this one from?" It took Hermione a moment to realize that he was talking about the blotchy scars on her legs. He pointed to a spackle of them near her ankle, looking like pinkish freckles.

"Sparks from a potion. I have another set up here," she rubbed the marks on her stomach and nearly jumped out of her skin as Ron shifted on the bed, his lips coming up to meet the scars personally, his hands pressing her stomach to his face.

He moved down, pressing a kiss to a blue scratch. "And this one?"

"Umm…" It was disconcerting to have his breath along her thighs like that… "Crookshanks, I think."

"And this one?" The one he was talking about was a particularly violet one splotched across one knee, bright against her pale skin.

"Learning to ride a broom. Harry taught me just before The Battle." Ron nodded, fingers tracing the marred skin with his fingertips, warming the flesh before his mouth settled over it in a gentle kiss.

"I remember that one," he said, voice low. "That Cleansweep wasn't a match for you, was it now?"

Damn his fingers. She knew right where she wanted those fingers, and it wasn't tracing the scars on her knee. And damn his mouth. It shouldn't be on her knee either.

"What about this one?" He traced the star-shaped one on her hip with his mouth.

Suddenly realizing his intent, she was thankful for every scar on her body.

It happened again, as they lay together later. His breathing slowed, as did hers, until she was barely conscious. And then he said it _again._ And that time, she was positive she heard him.

"I love you."

His breathing fell into the steady rhythm of sleep, and then she could react. And she sat up in bed, suddenly such a confusing bundle of emotions that she could barely see straight. He'd said it. He said that he loved her and damn it, she'd heard him.

And she loved him. And this was going to be fun – to get him to say it to her face…

And with an evil grin, she fell asleep after tucking herself back into his embrace, dreaming of seducing the un-seducible Ronald Weasley and making him admit what he couldn't admit to her face.

Her plan went into action the next day. Shortly after Harry finally pried himself from the couch downstairs – "Honestly Ron, why couldn't you just unlock the door?" – Hermione jumped him and dragged him outside, laying her well-thought out plans before him.

His face was a jumble of emotions – exhaustion, shock, and most importantly, an evil smirk to match Hermione's. "You watch too many soaps, 'Mione. This is insane!"

"But you'll help."

Harry didn't answer right away, but he finally gave a short nod. "I'm doing this for Ron, too, you know. He's had this thing about you ever since sixth year – that he'll admit, anyways – and I really want this to work between you two. Tell me again why you just can't tell him yourself and let him respond to that?"

She let out a long breath, strands of still-sleek hair fluttering in the air. "You know Ron like I know him – and he's the most stubborn ass I've ever met."

It may not have been the best excuse in the world, but it convinced Harry Potter and that was all Hermione needed. And so began the first week of Hell for Ronald Weasley.

Still standing in the dewy grass, Hermione rumpled her clothes – she'd _finally_ found a decent shower (without any…_interruptions_) and had changed into something casual out of Ginny Weasley's wardrobe – and chewed her lips, trying to make them appear swollen.

Harry meanwhile, was standing there, contemplating falling back asleep right where he stood.

Once Hermione looked convincingly ravished – Harry's appearance was of no consequence as you could impale someone with his hair and his shirt was conveniently on backwards – she took Harry's arm and dragged the half-awake man into the Weasley's kitchen.

And apparently, Hermione had done something right, for Molly Weasley turned to greet them from her station in front of the stove, and she dropped her wand right into the skillet of eggs she was in the process of scrambling.

Fred, whose hair was plastered to his head, spat a mouthful of milk across the table, splashing George, who had lodged his sausage up his nose.

But Ron's reaction was classic – his plate cracked under his fork as he brought it down to stab a piece of toast. His eggs exploded suddenly and coated him in the thick, yellow yolk, and his eyes were open wide enough that Hermione could make out her reflection in them.

"Great morning, isn't it? I was just showing Harry the sunrise," she said smoothly, slipping into the chair across from Ron. Harry lumbered over and slid into the one next to her, his arm lying along the back of her chair, hand curled about her shoulder. Truth of the matter was that Harry had quite forgotten he'd put it there – and was attempting to eat the eggs Molly had just dropped in front of him left-handed.

"Sunrise was two hours ago," Ron muttered under his breath, knocking his glass off the table as he banished the broken pieces of his plate to the trash.

And Hermione could only smile.

Damn, revenge was fun.


	2. Back to Basics

Liaisons of the Bathroom Variety 

Rating: R

Disclaimer: Yea, sure they're mine. But I'm not J.K. Rowling. So, maybe not.

Blurb: Ron and Hermione. More dirty liaisons; this time in the bathroom. Prequel to _Liaisons of the Kitchen Variety_.

Soundtrack suggestion: Anything that makes you feel that tingle.

Chapter 2: Back to Basics

The week passed by in little conquests and adventures, that always left Ron swearing under his breath, Hermione only hearing it out of habit. One grand instance had Ron finding Harry and Hermione in what seemed a heated embrace in the broom closet – though it was little more that a quick thinking hug from Hermione as Ron opened the door on their argument about said redhead.

Harry had caught on quickly to Hermione's hints. He'd catch her hand when they where walking together, tangle a foot around her ankle when they sat next to one another. And through it all, he was distant and aloof, sometimes eager to fool Ron, sometimes lost in thoughts that Hermione couldn't fathom.

This morning found them sitting on the porch of The Burrow, watching the grasses weave and dance in the fields around them. Harry was concentrating on a book clutched in one hand, his other arm draped across Hermione's shoulders, encasing her in a warm hug.

"What are you thinking about?" Hermione finally asked, breaking his attention on his book.

"Nothing. I'm reading," he said, wriggling where he sat, eyes still locked on the pages before him.

"You've been on this page since we came out here. You're not reading; you're thinking. Please; tell me, as a friend – as one of your oldest friends – what's got you so lost to us."

The book lowered, resting against his knee, his eyes now locked on the horizon. The arm tossed over her shoulders tightened slightly, and Hermione knew he was thinking of someone that he'd like to hold as he was holding her.

"Just…how much life has changed. Once upon a time, I was still this little boy that could barely summon a rock. Now I'm this big name, and everyone's changed… You've become such a woman, 'Mione – I mean, you've always been a _woman_, but now you're just…you're the adult version of this girl I once befriended and copied off and teased back in school. And Ron! He's got so much on his shoulders now," Harry paused for a second, sucking in a deep breath. "Did you know that he drinks because of you?"

Hermione let out a small noise, surprise tickling her throat.

"Yeah – he was insanely jealous over Krum. And he drank to get away from it. He's so different – so much a leader. He told me, just the other day, right before you dragged me outside, that he wasn't going to drink anymore. The part of him that was afraid at being overlooked has gone. It's…it's different… I just wish… I wish that things could go back to being the way they were in school. I want us all to be a group again – you and me, and Ron, Neville and Luna, and Ginny," his voice faltered slightly. "…Seamus and Dean, and Fred and George… But you've all got these lives that I can't be a part of… And I miss you. All of you."

The words hung in the darkening air, filtering through the distant trees to them. Hermione burrowed closer to Harry, eager to share his warmth and to share with him exactly what she was thinking.

"Harry, I've never been one to be emotional – you know that, as does Ron, and Ginny and everyone, but I need you to know that you will always be a part of who I am. It's because of you that I am _me_, and Ron is Ron, and the same goes for Neville and Luna, and Fred and George, and everyone. You're just Harry to us; the Harry that never did his homework and could find eight different ways to break one rule."

He smiled then, just the barest flicker of emotion before it was clouded over, head cocking to listen to approaching footsteps. "That's Ron. I'll leave you two to kill one another."

She adjusted herself in the chair, trying to make up for the now empty half of the bench. Flipping her hair over one shoulder and then the other, she tried not to grimace when she felt the coarse strands fall into her eyes. She was safe behind that curtain of hair, untouched to the world.

Ron came into view, crossing from the driveway that led into the village. He was stumbling forward, though not from drink. This wasn't a confused march; it was one of someone who was somewhere else, lost in thoughts they couldn't escape.

He tripped his way up the stairs, knocking into a chair and sending it skittering backwards. After steadying it, he collapsed into it, head on chest, eyes screwed tight in concentration.

"What's the matter?" Hermione asked, momentarily forgetting that she was in the process of teaching that particular Weasley a lesson. When he looked so lost, so devastated, her heart went out to him.

His body gave a jerking twitch, shoulders moving uncomfortably. Brown eyes suddenly glared at her from under a shield of burnt-orange hair, accusing and harsh and angry. "Where did you come from?" No trace of alcohol slurred his words and his gaze was sharp and bright – too bright, too full of something that she couldn't quite put her finger on.

"Been here the whole time," she answered casually, feigning interest in her jeans, while covertly watching Ron.

"Thought you'd be with our live-in hero." Anger burned his words, and jealousy – all emotions he was trying to bury under layers of sarcasm. "You know, making super-smart, super-hero babies."

A sudden desire to burst into insane laughter bubbled up inside of her and she choked it down, watching Ron watch the sunset. "Harry's got…got other things on him mind. Isn't the dusk gorgeous?"

The sudden topic change sent him off balance and he turned his confused gaze on her, blinking several times. "What if it is?" He was on the breaking point – she could hear him boiling underneath the surface and she longed for him to just explode and tell her what she needed to hear.

Even though she was doing this to be with him, it still hurt her to see him in such turmoil. And as sure as she was that she had heard his confession – she was beginning to doubt how much he meant it. Day after day went trailing by, chasing one another like hyped-up school kids, and he never said a word, never gave any hint other than his somber face – an improvement over the drunken one of lore – that he even cared a smidgen for her.

Life is so much more confusing when it's not three in the morning.

"I think we need to talk," he said suddenly, voice breaking the silence into lots of little pieces – crumbs in her eyes. He was too loud, too stubborn, too everything. And if he continued in this vein, she was sure she'd crack and reveal to him the plot to set him up.

He had that effect on her, as she damn well knew.

"About what?" she forced a shot of innocence into her voice, trying desperately hard not to run through the house to find Harry who would at least keep Ron at bay.

"About Harry." That surprised her. She thought he'd ask about their night of…whatever it was, – Lovemaking? Sex? Overachieved lusting? – and not jump her with questions about his best friend. As it was, she was kind of hoping it would be a little too painful for him to broach.

Talk about jumping out of the skillet and into the fire…

"What about Harry?"

"Well, for starters, he's in love with G- someone else. And you…you deserve better." Funny – was Ron really telling her that she could do better than _the_ Harry Potter? Maybe her ears were jinxed, because that couldn't be…

"Like who?" Little more than a whisper, she wanted to scream, to shout at him for being such a thick fool.

"Like…like someone else. I don't want to see you hurt." Was that it then? Did all he care about was not seeing her hurt?

Hermione took to her feet, rage valve jammed in the fully open position. "What in the hell, Ron? Harry is our oldest friend – my oldest friend, your oldest friend – and you think he's using me? What is wrong with you?" Staring at him for what seemed like eternity, she awaited a response. None came. Ron, still looking as though he was slightly shocked to not be hammered beyond consciousness, sat and craned his neck to gaze up at her.

"Good-night," she spat over her shoulder, already inside the house and heading for her bedroom.

The house was on tiptoes the rest of the week; Ron avoided Hermione and she returned the gift unopened, actually attempting to seek him out. Whether or not she was going to apologize and confess or slap him across his swollen head was yet to be decided, but she was willing to go spur of the moment.

It all came to a breaking point when Molly Weasley, sick of her house being used for a battleground, corralled Harry, Hermione, and Ron into an upstairs bedroom that was empty and locked the door behind them, threatening all of them with hexes if they even dared to leave the room before she came for them.

Looking around the confined spaces of the twins' bedroom, Hermione studied the posters on the wall, covered in rolls of parchment that held lists of Charms and Jinxes and Spells for their Wizarding Wheezes. Ron shuffled to one of the beds and unceremoniously dumped everything on the floor before collapsing on top of it.

Harry did the same for the other bed, leaving Hermione to stare down at the both of them, arms crossed, studying the two most prominent men in her life. The-Man-Who-Conquered was relaxed, lost, already elsewhere as his thoughts drifted. The youngest male Weasley was tense and impatient, foot tapping on the foot post of the bed, hands drumming on his stomach as he stared at the ceiling.

"I think this is bull –" Ron started, only to be cut off by Harry's rambunctious cough, sounding for all the world like a lesser-evil copy of a certain Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher that reminded them all strongly of a deformed toad…

"Now, now. There's a lady present," Harry said complacently, hands behind his head as he, too, studied the ceiling.

Hermione joined the club, glancing upwards to see an amazing assortment of random things hanging from the ceiling from various wires and cords and strings. A violin was in one corner, while one a delicate piece of fish-line was holding what appeared to be a Muggle stapler. Yarn held one coffee mug, and a length of cord supported a toaster.

"What in the hell is all that stuff?" Hermione asked in wonder.

"A collection. Fred and George liked to stare at it all for ideas. That there," Ron pointed at a rubber ducky held by some electrical wire, "was the inspiration for Canary Creams."

They could have lost themselves in the ceiling for several hours if Hermione's leg hadn't started to fall asleep. Because then she went to sit down, eyes still locked on the jumble above her, and landed quite cozily across Harry's lap – and it happened to be completely on accident.

Ron scowled across the room at them, arms crossing over his chest, eyes flitting to the wall at his feet. Harry and Hermione, meanwhile, were busy in trying to situate themselves on the bed, both of them so near to telling Ron off that their expressions were a mix of fury and humor, looking like chocolate swirled amongst vanilla.

No one spoke for what seemed like hours; the silence so thick it was hard to see straight. Finally, Ron shoved himself off the bed, pacing between the beds, his face a heavy mask of discord.

"This is complete bullshit," Ron murmured again, pushing his hands through his hair, making it stand up. It looked like bright fire licking at the top of his head, and Hermione had the sudden urge to smooth it down, to tame it.

"Actually, Ron, I have a confession to make," Harry said out of the blue, causing both her and Ron to twist to look at him, anger in one pair of eyes, betrayal in the other. "I'm only here to piss you off. 'Mione and I aren't dating. We're not even thinking about dating. So, I'll catch you when you're no longer homicidal."

And without further ado, Harry Apparated out, a pop seeing him off.

Hermione set her features, turning to face Ron's questioning gaze, confusion still splayed across his features. "What did he mean?"

"Nothing, you doxy. He meant nothing," she snapped, still trying hard not to crack. She _would not_ fall to Ron. He would admit his feelings first. _He would,_ she repeated, _He would…_

"You're not seeing him? Then why the elaborate setup to make me think you were?" Hermione didn't answer, instead watching the gears turning in his head as he put the pieces together. "You wanted to make me jealous…so that I would… What did you want me to do?"

A small, annoyed sound escaped her throat and Hermione rose to poke him forcefully. "I want to know _exactly_ what you think of me. Now."

Ron's face clouded over, a purple stain coloring his face. "I…I…actually, I… You see, the thing is, that I, actually, I… I have a…and you…high esteem…I care…actually, I…"

Hermione cut him off by planting her lips firmly against his, kissing him only long enough for his own lips to react and begin to kiss her back before she yanked them away. "You what?"

"I…love…you."

Success!

She kissed him again, his lips as hungry for her own as she was for him. Pulling away slightly, she muttered, "Fool, I love you too," into his ear before Ron's hands had locked themselves around her waist and pulled her down, across his lap.

"Want to start a legend?" Ron asked, as he pulled her close enough to feel his desire quite plainly.

"Why not?" she asked, quirking an eyebrow in his direction.

"Pick a twin, any twin."

And that was the day that Fred's bed became the site of Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger's first 'official bout of love-making as a couple,' an occurrence heralded by some, and disgusting others (mainly two twins and the younger sister of Ron, grossed out at the thought of her brother having any form of sexual activity.)

And the rest, as you may know, is history.

_:fin:_


End file.
